


Definitions of the Self

by ryssabeth



Series: Situational Irony [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Funeral, Grief, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all have a moment where he became theirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Definitions of the Self

 

(Marius had met Grantaire at a pub, one night—he himself had been just a little too drunk, you know how it is, and had said something.

He doesn’t remember what, but Grantaire does.

Did.

 _“This is my mate,”_ he’d said in Marius’ defense, though they’d only seen each other on the university’s campus, maybe once or twice. _“To get to him, you’ll have to get through me too.”_

Got a black eye that way.

But cracked a collarbone in retaliation.)

The small plot of grass, in the cemetery as close to their new— _Enjolras’_ new flat as they could find—is lined with chairs. Marius is lucky enough to be giving the eulogy, he supposes ( _outside_ , Enjolras had said, when asked about the funeral, _outside_. He hadn’t come to the wake.

And, from here, it doesn’t look like he wants to be at the funeral, either). At least he doesn’t have to stare at the hole while he speaks.

Marius clears his throat.

( _emergency meeting at ep’s_ the text message had said.)

“I think, perhaps,” Marius starts softly, raising voice as he sees others straining to hear, “I think, perhaps, Grantaire might have been surprised by the turnout to his own funeral. He told me once, just after we became friends, but before he started crashing at my flat, that if he weren’t a required attendee at his own funeral, he probably wouldn’t go. He’s always thought he was funnier than he actually is.”

This causes Courfeyrac to snort (but then they had shared jokes more than once, hardly funny to anyone else but them).

( _“Do you mind being known as Marius’ friend?”_ he’d asked once.

 _“What? No.”_ )

Marius continues to speak.

-

(Eponine had met Grantaire through Marius—but she’s pretty sure all of them met him that way.)

“And, uhm,” Marius speaks nervously—perhaps because he wasn’t the first choice to give the eulogy. But everyone can see why Enjolras refused. That is his right, after all. “They say that you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead—but I don’t think he’d be amused by that at all.”

“Dead people were alive once and living people do stupid things,” Eponine quotes under her breath, in tandem with Marius. This had been said at Representative Lamarque’s funeral (invite only—and the only reason the lot of them got in is because their organization had been very close with him). At the time a lot of them had been aghast.

If Eponine is being honest, she’s aghast still.

(The call had been from Joly—because Enjolras wasn’t moving from the hospital.

Courfeyrac had answered his phone first and she’d demanded a meeting.

The time it took them to get there gave her moments alone to cry.)

Marius wrings his hands and keeps talking.

Eponine covers her eyes as he does.

( _“Grantaire, does it ever bother you that Enjolras only calls you Marius’ friend?”_

 _“Nope. No care to me.”_ )

-

Cosette sits next to Enjolras, her hands folded delicately in her lap. Her fingers are laced, and not squeezed together. But that could be because she’s stopped listening to Marius speak, and instead is admiring the hole where Grantaire’s box is already waiting.

( _“Hello,”_ Grantaire had said upon their first meeting, _“Marius can’t stop talking about you—and now I can see why. You’ve got kindness coming out of your ears.”_ )

It’s not really her place to cry—Marius’ eyes water most days, and it isn’t fair of her to weep as well. One of them needs to support the other, and she thinks she’s strong enough for that.

And—and sitting next to Enjolras, what right does she have to feel upset?

(Enjolras looks winded. Exhausted and rolled over and defeated.)

Cosette bows her head—and her knuckles are white now, her fingers clenched around one another. She—she can’t _cry_ that’s not—that’s not _fair_ , not to these people that have known him longer, not to anyone and—

( _“Heey, Cosette. You know, you are the first person who hasn’t referred to me as Marius’ friend Grantiare? You’d think that was my name these days.”_

_“Oh. I’m sorry?”_

_“Pssh no, don’t be._ ”)

-

Courfeyrac and Combeferre have similar memories of Grantaire, probably because they met him at the same time.

( _“Hi, everyone, this is Grantaire. He’s got nowhere better to be—“_

 _“A lot like you,”_ Courfeyrac had joked.

That had gotten laugh.

And that had made Grantaire smile.)

Courfeyrac had gotten his crying out at Eponine’s, had spent a good portion of his free time crying about it—because how can you get over losing someone with such a blessed sense of humour? Who drinks (drank) and sings (sung) and supports (supported) a group that he has _no_ cause in simply because he wants (wanted) to be somewhere?

You don’t.

Combeferre’s hand has been on his shoulder the whole time—and while he’d like to cry, of that Courfeyrac is certain, he won’t. Combeferre is the pillar.

And so, sometimes, Courfeyrac wants to cry _for_ him (but that doesn’t really help any, and, sometimes, he thinks that maybe Eponine does that for him, but he isn’t sure and no one’s asked, it’s hardly any of their business).

“Grantaire always appreciated irony,” Marius says—and he thinks they’re getting close enough to the end of this, and that will be so _final_ , so—so _done_ (and Combeferre’s fingers dig more viciously into his shoulder). “And I suppose it’s good that he did—because I don’t think anyone here can manage that, anymore.”

As depressing as that is—they all know that Enjolras’ eulogy would have been worse—something to behold in its entirety and it wouldn’t have been pretty.

( _“Okay, okay, so I have this joke—“_

 _“Oh shit, okay, one sec, let me get a beer—“_ )

-

Jehan is looping flowers through one another—over and under and over and under and over again—a wreath for Grantaire to hold onto when he gets where he’s going.

( _“A poet, hm? My sister tried her hand at poetry once—it was something else.”_

Jehan had snickered. _“Do you want to read some?”_

 _“Are you offering?”_ )

He’d chosen some of the flowers for symbolism—and then he remembered that Grantaire isn’t particularly a fan of arbitrary definitions of flowers (though Jehan still likes to use them—because all definitions are arbitrary and if he let himself be discouraged by that, then who was he really?). But to reach a happy medium Jehan had picked some gaudy flowers, and a few weeds.

And those had been woven into his wreath as well.

( _“What if I were to change the definition of a rose?”_

_“It would smell as sweet as it does now.”_

_“Oh_ Jehan.”)

-

Joly didn’t come to the funeral.

He still thinks he might throw up if he goes.

( _“A hypochondriac, you say? Well, let’s bolster your immune system, up we go—“_ )

Bossuet drives him to work and Musichetta drives him home.

(He doesn’t work on car accident victims, anymore.)

-

Marius is almost done.

“He—I asked him once if it made him sad that he was defined, oftentimes, by the people around him. Because I always had the habit of saying _my friend Grantaire_ and sometimes people called him _Enjolras’_ _boyfriend,_ or _Marius’ friend_ and—ha, and he said, _no_. He said _no, why would I be? It’s not like I’m being defined by shitty people, and my reputation via you is better than my reputation via me._ ”

He swallows.

“I always thought it was a little sad, though.”

( _What if people forget him_ , Marius thinks. _What if we’re the last people that know his name and everyone else just knows him by us._

 _What if we forget him too._ )

Enjolras bends, half over, flinching away from something that Marius cannot see, as if he pried into Marius’ mind and pulled the thoughts out with trembling fingers.

-

( _Hi_ , Marius orders coffee, two days after this friend is buried in a wood box that he would have complained is far too expensive for the likes of him. _Just—if you could, could you put Grantaire’s friend on the coffee cup, instead of my name?_

The barista is confused, but obliges.

Marius can’t bring himself to drink the coffee until long after it’s gone cold.)


End file.
